


My City, or A Canadian Were-Caribou in Chicago

by Lyowyn



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher, due South
Genre: Case Fic, Enemies to Lovers, Inuit legend, M/M, Mobsters, Some Humor, ghost fraser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19466998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyowyn/pseuds/Lyowyn
Summary: When children start disappearing in Chicago, the ghost of a certain Mountie and his two partners seek out the help of Chicago's only wizard for hire. An old debt gets called in, and Gentleman Johnny Marcone finds himself in the middle of all the madness.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a slow day, and I had been dozing, leaned back in the chair in my office with my long legs propped on my desk, when a knock on the door startled me suddenly awake, and I jerked—nearly falling off my chair, and knocking a stack of unpaid bills off my desk in the process.

It would be nice to be able to say that this kind of graceful reaction to unexpected visitors was an isolated incident, but that would be a lie.

I quickly righted my chair, and gathered the scattered envelopes, stuffing them into the overflowing bottom drawer of my desk. I stood up, clearing my throat, and tried to gather some modicum of wizardly self-respect as I said, “Come in,” in a somewhat strained voice.

The man who entered was balding with a prodigious beak of a nose, medium height, and a slightly more slender than average build. He wore a grey suit that looked like it cost twice the monthly rent of my office and my apartment combined. I thought that it was probably an Armani, but what the hell do I know about suits other than that, in my line of work, I can’t afford the dry-cleaning.

But, I was a wizard with bills to pay, and I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth—or a client that might actually have the money to pay my rates. I’d been doing more than my fair share of pro bono cases lately. What can I say, I’m a sucker for a sob story.

Something about his demeanor reminded me of my cat, Mister—a smug air of feline superiority. Usually when prospective clients entered my office, they either looked skeptical and oh-so-above-it-all, desperate, or at least vaguely uncomfortable about being in an unfamiliar environment with Chicago’s only Wizard P.I. for hire. This guy wandered in like he owned the place.

“Are you Mr. Dresden?” he asked. “Or, is it… _Wizard_ Dresden?”

“Either is fine,” I answered. Something about this guy felt a little off, and I wasn’t about to give him any portion of my true name from my own lips until I’d found out what he wanted.

“Mr. Dresden,” he chose, extending his hand. “My name is Armando Langoustini.” 

I shook his hand. No spark of a fellow practitioner, but I had the feeling that Armando Langoustini wasn’t his real name. There had been no hesitation from him, so it might not have been a complete lie, but it didn’t have the ring of truth either. Still, nothing out of the ordinary there. Anyone in the know about the supernatural world would balk at giving a strange wizard their true name from their own lips. It was suggestive though. The name itself rang a faint bell, but I couldn’t remember where I would have heard it before.

“Please, have a seat, Mr. Langoustini,” I said, gesturing to one of the two chairs before my desk. He sat in the chair that I hadn’t pointed to, I noted. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m being irritated by a Mountie.”

I frowned. Well… that was… a new one. “Like, a Canadian Mountie?” I asked, “Horses, and Dudley Do-Right, and _we always get our man_?”

He nodded, and shifted in his chair, looking behind him.

“Well, that’s a bit odd, even for Chicago, but Canadians aren’t exactly supernatural creatures--- even Mounties.”

Langoustini snorted. “You haven’t met this one. Also, he’s been dead for two years.”

“Oh,” I said. “Excising ghosts isn’t really my area of expertise, but I can put you in contact with a legitimate spiritualist.” I started digging in my desk for one of Mortimer Lindquist’s business cards that I kept for referrals.

“Tempting,” he said, “but Benny isn’t why I’m here.”

I stopped my searching and looked up. “Benny? So, the Mountie isn’t a random ghost that has been haunting you? You actually knew him?”

“He was my partner.”

I took in the fancy suit again, reevaluating my opinions of the man, and made note of the gold wedding band on his finger. “Oh, I see,” I said, closing the top drawer of my desk.

He seemed to understand what I was thinking then though, because he quickly shook his head. “No, not like _that_. I mean, he is, was, is, but I’m not. I’m married. To a woman.”

“Oookay,” I said. “So, Benny the Mountie was your business partner, or are you a Mountie as well?” Somehow, I couldn’t quite imagine this guy riding a horse across the frozen tundra.

Langoustini looked uncomfortable. “I’m American,” he said, not answering the question. “Benny was my friend.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “ _Is_ my friend,” he corrected. “The ghost part doesn’t really have anything to do with why I’m here.”

“Right,” I said. “So, when I asked you what I could help you with, and you said that you were being irritated by the ghost of a Mountie, that was all some clever ruse to throw me off the scent?” I raised an eyebrow.

“No.” Langoustini groaned and looked over his shoulder again. “That’s going to make me sound even crazier,” he muttered under his breath.

I looked into the empty space behind Langoustini that kept drawing his attention. “Is Benny in the room with us now?” I asked. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, as if just asking the question caused me to sense some ghostly presence.

“Yeah.” He looked to the empty space again and then back to me. “I was hoping that with the whole wizard thing, you might be able to see him too.”

“Personal hauntings of loved ones can be tricky. There are steps that I could take to make him visible to my normal senses, but without proper preparation, no.”

“Prevents poor performance, yeah,” Langoustini muttered, obviously addressing the ghost. He sighed. “Okay, look. Benny called me away from my retirement, because he says there’s a… What was it again?” A pause as the ghost answered, “There’s an ijiraq causing problems in Chicago, and he wanted my help.”

“Can you spell that?” I asked, taking out a pad and pencil.

He glanced over his shoulder, and relayed the spelling—not looking the least bit impressed with my wizardly competence.

 _What?_ Supernatural nasties are a dime a dozen in the Nevernever. I’m supposed to remember the name of every dark creature that ever came whiffing out of the tulgey wood? I have Bob for that.

“It’s some kind of Canadian monster thing.” He looked over his shoulder again and rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, an _Inuit, shape-shifting,_ monster thing.”

I wrote down the words _Inuit_ and s _hape-shifter_ under _Ijiraq_.

Langoustini sighed. “Look, I have a ghost following me around, correcting my grammar, and making me hold doors open, and help little old ladies across the street, so I’m not going to say what’s real and what isn’t, but this sort of thing,” he gestured around my office, “isn’t really my area. John Marcone said that you’d be able to help. So, can you?”

I put my pad and pencil down and gritted my teeth. My words were icy as I said, “Marcone sent you.” And, just as I was thinking that it wasn’t Mister that this guy reminded me of, but that smarmy bastard Marcone, and trying not to look too closely into the similarities between my familiar and my least-favorite mob boss, I realized where I’d heard this guy’s name before. “You’re Armando ' _The Bookman_ ' Langoustini. You’re the guy that dismantled the Vargassi family and set off the gang war that made room for Marcone to take over the outfit.”

Langoustini grimaced. “It didn’t exactly go down like that. It--”

I cut off his explanation. “Get out of my office, and you can tell the Freeholding _Lord_ of Chicago that if he wants my help, he can ask. That way, I can tell him to go fuck himself in person.”

“But, I,” he started again, as I pulled him out of his chair-- wrinkling his probably-Armani suit and not giving two shits about it.

“Good day, Mr. Bookman,” I said, as I physically pushed him out of my office and slammed the door.

I watched as his shadow stood on the other side of the opaque glass bearing my shingle and smoothed his hands over his suit.

“Shut up, Benny,” I heard him mutter as he disappeared from view.

I paced the room and seethed, trying to put a stopper on my anger so that I wouldn’t fry the phone when I called Marcone’s office to tell him off. Rotary phones were the highest level of telecommunications technology that I could expect to work on an at least semi-regular basis, and they were getting harder to find. I didn’t feel like spending a day scouring half the antiques stores in Chicago looking for a replacement, because Marcone made me lose my temper. Again.

I was just sticking the end of my pencil in one of the rotary dial’s holes to call, when there was another knock on the door. I let the receiver fall back in the cradle. “That was fast," I told the door. “What? Were you waiting while Cujo circled the block?”

The knob turned and the door creaked open, but instead of the smarmy bastard himself, like I was expecting, it was a handsome, middle-aged man, with spikey graying hair, and an ill-concealed shoulder holster.

I grabbed my blasting rod from the spring-loaded rig that I’d installed under my desk and pointed it at him. “Who are you?” I demanded.

He raised both of his hands, giving me the ‘okay, this guy is crazy, just play along,’ condescending smile. “Ray Kowalski. Are you Harry Dresden, the wizard?”

“Yes,” I answered, not lowering my blasting rod.

“Do you mind putting down your- _erm…_ wand… I’m guessing?”

As a matter of fact, I did, but it was slightly possible that this guy wasn’t one of Marcone’s goons. “You a client?” I asked, narrowing my gaze.

“Not yet,” he answered, still smiling that placating smile with perfect white teeth. “I’m kinda starting to wonder if I really want to be.”

I grunted and pointed at one of the chairs with my blasting rod before I set it on the desk—still within easy reach.

He sat in the chair I’d indicated.

“What did you say your name was, again?”

“Kowalski,” he repeated, still eyeing my blasting rod. “Ray Kowalski.”

That rang true I decided, and relaxed another degree. “Sorry about that, I thought that someone sent you here to fuck with me.”

He smiled the first genuine smile that I’d seen from him, and I extended my hand. He shook it, and I got an almost imperceptible spark off of him, but that was it, so maybe a little magical talent there, but not enough that the man himself had probably even noticed it. It felt like luck magic to me.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Kowalski?” I asked.

“Well,” he said. “This is probably going to sound crazy, but do you know anything about shape-shifting Eskimos? My partner is Canadian, and he seems to think that-”

He fell silent as, in a flash, I had my blasting rod pointed in his face again. “Get out!”

His eyes widened, and he raised his hands once more, as he slowly got to his feet. “I’m not sure what I-”

“Out,” I repeated. “And, tell your boss that I don’t find this at all amusing, and he won’t like me when I’m un-amused.”

He shot a questioning glance at the same empty space in the corner that The Bookman had been consulting.

“You can take any deceased Mounties, that may be haunting the room, with you,” I snapped out.

“What the fuck, Fraser?” He asked, even as he took his sweet time going out the door. “What do you mean, _I may have made a poor first impression_? Can he see you?”

“Out!”

“Fine,” he said. “We’re going.”

The door shut behind him, and I heard, “No wonder he can’t afford a nicer office. What a nutjob. What was she thinking?” along with Kowalski’s footsteps disappearing down the hall.

“Hells bells,” I muttered to myself. “What was that all about?”

As my anger cooled, I began to question my assumptions about the situation. Kowalski hadn’t acted like someone Marcone had sent to mess with me, but why would some oblivious vanilla mortal come in here spouting the exact same story as a big-name Mafioso like Bookman Langoustini. Whatever was going on, Marcone was involved somehow, and when Marcone was involved, my temper had a policy of explode first, ask questions later.

I wasn’t nearly as worried about the phone this time. as I reached for it to try to call Gentleman Johnny again, but my hand was still an inch away when it started ringing.

I picked it up warily and said, “Dresden.”

It was Murphy, and she had that tone in her voice that said that it had been a long day already, and if she had to take any more complications from scruffy wizards on top of it, she just might snap. “You want to explain to me why Lieutenant Kowalski just called me saying that you pointed your magic wand at him and screamed him out of your office like, and I’m quoting here, a paranoid psychopath with a Gandalf complex?”

I groaned. “ _Lieutenant_ Kowalski?”

“Yeah, he heads up the 27th precinct. He’s working a case that should really belong to S.I., but I guess it ties in with some old case that he and his partner worked back in the nineties.”

“His partner happen to be a Canadian Mountie named Benny Fraser?”

“He told you that?”

“Sort of.” I groaned. “Look, Murph, Marcone’s involved in this somehow. He sent over some old named-man from the outfit with the exact same story. I thought Kowalski was one of his guys.”

Murphy’s irritation was gone in an instant. She burst into a girlish giggle—though I value my life too much to ever describe it like that to her face. “You thought that Stanley Kowalski was a mobster?” She giggled again.

“Wait. _Stanley_ Kowalski? Like Brando’s character in that Tennessee Williams thing?”

“Yeah. He has a bit of a sore spot about it though. He goes by his middle name instead, but everyone still calls him Stanley behind his back. He’s been the Lieu over at the 27th since I’ve been in S.I.”

“So,” I said, sounding sheepish. “He wanted me to consult for a case, on the C.P.D. payroll, and I went off on him like a raving lunatic.”

“Paranoid. Psychotic. _Gandalf_ ,” she corrected, giggling again.

“Stars and stones,” I muttered. “Okay, well obviously I’ll have to get to the bottom of Marcone’s involvement, but do you think that you can convince Lieutenant Kowalski to come by again in the morning? I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“I don’t know him that well, but if half the stories I’ve heard about him are true, I think Kowalski has a pretty high tolerance for crazy. His partner, and I do mean that in every sense of the word, had a bit of a reputation in the department.”

Bookman’s words, ‘ _Not like that. I mean he is, was, is, but I’m not_ ,’ came back to me, and I asked, “Do you know what connection the partner had with The Bookman Langoustini?”

“Bookman,” Murphy asked. “None that I know of. I think Fraser was partnered with Detective Vecchio when all of that went down. Vecchio took a bullet and early retirement. Kowalski transferred in to replace him after, if I remember right. It was a little before my time.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Okay. What do you know about the case?”

“Missing kids. Half a dozen, at least. Common age and ethnicity, so Missing Persons is thinking some creep with a panel van, particular tastes, and a missing puppy.” She sounded disgusted, and I was right there with her. “But, then one of the kids turns up with frostbite at the bottom of that big pile of Eskimo rocks in City Center, talking about a reindeer man. So, Missing Persons passes the buck (no pun intended) to S.I. They put me and Rawlins on it, but I only had the file for about five minutes before I’m told to hand it over to the 27th, because Lieutenant Kowalski has a personal interest. Usually, the department frowns on that sort of thing, but it overlapped a pervious case. So, _whatever_ , I pass along my files like a good little Sergeant. That was a week ago. Then, today, I get a call from Kowalski asking about my friend the wizard, and I tell him that, yes, he can trust you, and why sure, here’s the address for his office. At which point, you decide to go all paranoid, psychotic, Gandalf.”

“I said that I was sorry about that.”

“No,” Murphy said. “You didn’t, actually.”

“Well, I _am_ sorry. The other guy said Marcone sent him, so I… reacted rashly.”

“That tends to happen when Gentleman Johnny is involved.”

I snorted. “And you have no idea what his interest might be in the case?”

“None.”

“What about the Mountie? Do you know what connection he might have to Marcone, Langoustini, or anyone else with the outfit? I got the impression that he and Langoustini might have had a relationship at some point.”

“Not a positive one. I heard that he once arrested Wilson Warfield because he wouldn’t apologize to a busboy. He doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who would have been in bed with the mob—literally or figuratively.”

“No,” I agreed. “He sounds like Captain Super Canadian.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “How exactly did this guy end up working for C.P.D. anyway?”

“That’s the really weird thing. If you ask that question to anyone over at the 27th, they’ll all tell you the exact same thing. I mean, word for word, like some kind of mantra. I can’t tell if it’s an inside joke, or what. The 27th… they’ve always been a bit kooky. They have a reputation like S.I. You know, somewhere to send the square pegs that don’t want to fit in the round holes.”

“Okay, but what do they say?”

She took any inflection out of her voice, and said. “Constable Fraser first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father, and for reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture, he remained—attached as liaison with the Canadian Consulate.”

“And, they all say it like that? _Reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture_?”

“Yup. They all have this look in their eyes though—like maybe it started out as a joke, but now they just say it because that’s what they’re supposed to say. I don’t know. They’re all a bit odd, and that’s coming from someone who deals with S.I. on a daily basis.”

“Square pegs,” I repeated, but I wasn’t sure. It sounded more like a compulsion spell to me, and I wondered what the real story was with the mysterious ghost Mountie. “So, how did he die then, Fraser, I mean?”

“You’ll have to ask Kowalski about that one. It happened a couple years ago, but whatever it was, they keep pretty hush about it. I guess Kowalski went off the deep end for a while right after. He took some leave, and when he came back, he acted like nothing had happened. That’s all I know about it. But, I mean, they were together for a long time—ten years at least. They worked together, lived together, spent every minute of every day in each other’s company. I can’t imagine what the sudden loss of something like that would do to a person.”

“Right.” I cleared my throat. I could imagine all too well what the sudden loss of someone you loved was like, when you were used to spending all your time in each other’s pockets. “Well, extend my apologies, and have him stop by as soon as possible tomorrow. I’ll be in by eight, and in the meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up on were-Rudolf.”

“Okay. You’re going to call Marcone?”

“Think maybe I’ll pay him a surprise visit.”

“Should I tell the fire department to be on standby?”

I laughed. “I’ll try to keep property damage to a minimum this time. Bye, Murph.”

“Good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here’s the deal with this story. I had the idea for this about a year ago. I took a bunch of notes, and wrote a few scenes (including this entire chapter.) Then, I realized that the oneshot that I thought I was writing, wasn’t going to work as a oneshot, and it was going to take a lot more time than I was planning. So, I shelved it, and it’s been percolating in the back of my mind ever since.  
> I still really want to write it, but I’m not sure where it fits in my list of fanfiction priorities. I feel like my audience for this is going to be a really tiny niche of fandom. That's okay, but this is where you come in, theoretical reader. I'm posting this chapter as a feeler to see if anyone wants to read this story. So, if you’re here, you’re the dot in the center of this particular venn diagram. If you thought this story was interesting and you want to read more, hit the kudos button. Subscribe. Bookmark. Comment. Send me a carrier pigeon. Just let me know that you’re out there, and I’ll make more time to work on this. Honestly, I probably will anyway, because I like telling myself the story as much as I like writing for others, but if people are reading, it will give me more incentive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working out exactly where this story fits into the canon timeline, but it's somewhere between Small Favor and Changes, and about ten years after the end of Due South.
> 
> I'm going to be changing POV throughout this story. Dresden and Marcone will be written in first person, while the Rays will be written in third person. If this is awkward or confusing for you as readers, please let me know, and I'll try to rework it. I'm experimenting and trying out a few new things with this story, so your input is very much appreciated.

Lieutenant Stanley Raymond Kowalski threw the file on the missing children case down on his desk and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"Do you really think this Dresden guy is going to be able to help?" He asked Fraser.

"I think he's the only one that can," Fraser said. He was leaning against the wall by the door, watching Ray, with Diefenbaker asleep at his feet.

"Are you going to explain to me why he threw me out of his office? That guy is a total whack job. I mean, I hear wizard and I figure that he has a few screws loose, but here I am, talking to you, so who am I to judge?"

Fraser rubbed a thumb over his eyebrow and looked sheepish. "Due to a prior misunderstanding, he seems to believe that you were playing a prank on him."

"Yeah. I got that. What kinda prior misunderstanding are we talking about here?"

"Oh, it hardly matters now, Ray. Sergeant Murphy has spoken to Wizard Dresden on your behalf. I'm sure everything has been cleared up." He said it in that dismissive offhand way that he always used when he was hiding something, because whatever he'd done was so monumentally stupid that Ray would be forced out of common decency to have Fraser committed to a mental institution. Except, Fraser was dead, and he was the one talking to a ghost, so Ray decided to let it go.

Fraser crossed the room and set his hand on Ray's shoulder, as he leaned over the desk to read the file. Ray closed his eyes, and he could almost feel the touch. 

"You should go home, Ray," Fraser said softly. "You're working yourself to exhaustion. You can't expect to be productive unless you are well rested."

Ray hummed. "What are you going to do?"

"Diefenbaker and I will stakeout the inukshuk. I believe that the Ijiraq is using it to come into the physical world to steal its victims. If it takes any more children, in my current incorporeal state, I may be able to follow it through."

"Unhuh," Ray said, "and then I'll have a bunch of missing kids and a missing Mountie to track down."

"You needn't worry about me, Ray, and I will of course send Diefenbaker back to tell you what happened."

"Which would be great, if I could speak wolf," Ray muttered.

"I am confident that, under the circumstances, you will be able to extrapolate."

The ghost of the wolf let out a yawn to let everyone know what he thought of that idea.

"Yeah, okay, Fraser, whatever. Just be careful." Ray reached a hand up, and it passed through Fraser’s to land on his own shoulder. Ray sighed. He'd spent over a year, at the beginning of their partnership, wanting to touch him and not having the courage to make a move. Ray had thought that kind of constant longing had been hell, but he'd had no idea. Wanting to touch, and knowing that you could if you just manned up about it, and knowing that you would never be able to hold the man that you loved ever again, were two very different things.

He got to his feet. "Okay, I'm going home to get some sleep. If you're still around in the morning, want to check in?"

"Of course, Ray."

Fraser brushed ghostly lips across Ray's cheek, and then slapped his hand against his thigh to rouse Diefenbaker. The wolf grumbled, but he got up to follow. Fraser tipped his hat to Ray and walked into the closet.

Ray felt a pang of _something_ as he watched him disappear: pain, regret, fondness, love, exhaustion, indigestion…

He shook himself and went to open the door to his office. He abruptly slammed it shut again and took a step back. He rubbed his eyes and cracked the door open a couple of inches to peek around the corner. 

Yup, there was a huge, goddamn, fucking _snake_ stretched out across the floor of the bullpen. Several of his officers and detectives were standing on top of their desks, holding their guns drawn on the thing.

"What the fuck is that?" Ray yelled.

Huey turned toward him, from where he stood on the other side of the snake—one of the few people not perched on the furniture. "I think it's a boa constrictor," he said.

"No, that's an anaconda," his partner argued. Dewey was holding a short, heavily tattooed woman, with her hands cuffed behind her back.

"She's a Burmese Python," the woman said. “She’s completely harmless. Please, don’t shoot her.”

"I don't care what kind of big, fucking snake it is!" Ray shouted. "I can see it's a big, fucking snake! Everyone can see it's a big, fucking snake! What I want to know is, what is it doing in my bullpen?"

Ray could feel the vein throbbing in his temple, and he felt a sudden empathetic connection to the Retired Lieutenant Welsh. He only gave it a couple more years before he'd be popping antacids and nursing an ulcer of his own.

"We're waiting on animal control," Huey said. "We were, ah… unable to remove the snake from the perp at the time of arrest."

"They were all too afraid to touch her," the woman in handcuffs added, helpfully. "I told you guys she's harmless. If you just uncuff me, I can get her up off the floor."

"In what world is a twenty foot python harmless?" Ray demanded.

"She isn't even thirteen feet," the woman said with a scoff. "She's a big puppy dog."

The snake gave a low hiss, and every person in the room took another step back.

Now, Ray liked reptiles just fine. He had a pet box turtle that he was very fond of, but Turtle ate various greens and vegetables, and the occasional meal worm. Turtle was not big enough to swallow him whole, and thirteen feet or twenty, it didn't much matter to Ray, there was no way in hell that he was stepping outside of his office until that big, fucking snake was safely secured elsewhere-- preferably, far, far away.

"Huey, uncuff her and have her put that thing in interrogation room 3, until animal control gets here," Ray said, remembering that he was supposed to be in charge. Huey started to obey the command, and Ray thought to ask, "Wait, what are you charging her with?"

"Walking a pet without a leash," Huey said.

"And, disrespecting a police officer," his partner put in.

The woman rolled her eyes. "I just asked the detectives to explain to me how I should attach the collar."

Ray groaned. "Uncuff her."

Huey released the woman, and she rubbed at her wrists as she walked over to the snake, speaking softly to it. "Come here, sweetheart. Isn't the floor cold? Mommy won't let the mean cops hurt you." She bent at the knees, and with a groan of effort, picked the python up in the middle and hefted it up onto her shoulders. The snake coiled its tail around one of her thighs and down her leg, and swiveled its head to stare right at Ray for a long slow moment, flicking its tongue lazily in what appeared to be disdain. Satisfied in its magnanimous superiority, it turned its big head to flick its tongue over its mistress's neck and face while she scrunched her nose, smiling, and finally rested its head atop her messy pile of black hair.

Huey gestured down the hall, and took her away toward interrogation room 3.

"This is why none of the other departments want to work with us," Ray said to his officers cowering on their desks. "Get back to work." He glared at them while they sheepishly got down off of the furniture and pretended to be busy shuffling their paperwork and typing on keyboards. He pulled on his jacket and headed out the door.

"My monkeys, my circus," he reminded himself in a mutter. "Damn you, Welsh. How the fuck is this my life?"

-*-

It took a combination of his years of experience in detective work, and the weight of his reputation as The Bookman, for Ray Vecchio to track down Marcone's current base of operations. 

The building still appeared to be fully under construction. Ray had to squeeze the Riviera past orange cones, and around construction barricades, to park beside the contractor's pickup trucks and the sleek black sedans that belonged to a different type of "contractor" entirely. 

He walked through the unfinished lobby floor of the building to the bank of elevators, and rode up to the fifth floor. The office he stepped into could have belonged to any executive businessman in any upscale office building in the city. It was all sleek modern decor, and expensive furnishings.

The blonde bombshell working the front desk, only gave him one look before she hit the buzzer on her intercom. She didn't say anything, but before Ray could ask to see Marcone, the door behind her desk opened, and Nathaniel Hendricks stepped out. His stiff posture melted away, and his hand dropped from the butt of his Desert Eagle as soon as he saw Ray.

Hendricks grinned "Armando! Long time, no see. Johnny said that you were in town."

"Nathan, you giant, Irish mook, don't tell me you're still working for His Nibbs?"

Hendricks shrugged. "For now. You here to see him?"

"Didn't come for your ugly mug. He busy?"

"Nothing he can't set aside. Ought to make you wait, for that ugly mug comment, though."

"But you won't," Ray said. He smacked Hendricks affectionately on one beefy shoulder. "Don't forget, you still owe me fifty bucks."

Hendricks frowned. "From when?"

"Remember, you bet me that I couldn't get that girl's number?"

"Bullshit," Hendricks said. "It doesn't count if she gave you a fake."

Ray lifted his left hand and tapped his wedding band with one finger.

"The blonde? No way in Hell, you rate, Langoustini. Not with that beak."

"Cavemen in off the rack suits shouldn't throw stones," Ray called over his shoulder as he went into Marcone's office.

“If you think Men’s Warehouse stocks suits in Nathan’s size, you’re dreaming,” Marcone said, not even looking up from his computer. “I’m sorry to say that that hideous thing is bespoke.”

“Good thing you hired him for his brains and not his fashion sense, then,” Ray said, taking a seat in one of the chairs before Marcone’s desk.

“I see you found my office all right,” Marcone observed, clicking his laptop closed.

“Yeah, well, I might have needed to intimidate a few of your guys to track you down, but no one is in the hospital.”

Marcone frowned. “You do have my number. You might have called to set up an appointment.”

“Maybe, but you also could have warned me that your ‘ _friend_ ’ the wizard was going to throw me out of his office if I mentioned your name. Something tells me that he would have chosen a different word to describe your relationship— enemy, maybe.”

“Our relationship is… complicated. However, I would have expected that, given the nature of what you were asking him to investigate, he might have set aside his personal feelings.”

“He said that if you wanted his help, you could ask him yourself, so that he could tell you to fuck off in person.”

Marcone smiled a shark’s grin. “I see.”

“What does that mean, _you see_? You owe me more than a few favors, Marcone. I need help finding these kids. Seems like you might have an interest in finding them too, so are you going to put the wizard in line, or do I need to go back there myself and teach him a thing or two about respect.”

Marcone laughed, a loud chuckle from deep in his belly. “If you can teach respect to Harry Dresden, I’ll retire to the countryside to keep bees, and cede all of my power to you. I’ve been trying to teach him basic manners for a decade, but where Vampire Warlords, Faerie Queens, and Fallen Angels have failed, I do not hope to succeed. And, I’ll warn you, trying to use force on Harry Dresden, usually results in a call to the Fire Department.”

Ray gave him a skeptical look. “You’re not telling me he’s _actually_ a wizard? Vampires, fairies, and fallen angels? Do you need to get your head checked, John?”

“You swan back into town, call me up after a decade, and ask for my help finding missing children that you believe to have been abducted by a monster from an old Inuit legend, and instead of disbelieving you, I recommended the services of my wizard. Yet, you do not believe in the supernatural?”

“I think something is going on,” Ray said. “A friend of mine asked me to look into it. That doesn’t mean that I actually believe that it’s some Canadian were-caribou doing the kidnapping. But, I think it’s likely that whatever is happening to these kids has something to do with this Inuit fairy tale, and that the legend will help us to track them down. It will probably turn out to be some nut job with antlers strapped to his head.”

“It’s a possibility,” Marcone admitted, “but in my experience, it’s a lot more likely that it will turn out to be a Canadian were-caribou.”

Ray shook his head. “It’s this city. I swear they put something in the water. Everyone who lives here is completely crazy. I never have to deal with this stuff in Florida.”

“I believe that there are whole pages of the internet with collections of articles that start, ‘Florida Man,’ that would disagree with that statement.”

“That’s just ordinary, white trash rednecks, not monsters and fairy tales.”

Marcone nodded. “I’ll have this conversation with you again in a week or two, and see if you’ve changed your mind. In the meantime, I’ll ask Wizard Dresden for his help personally, so that he can tell me to fuck off, and then do precisely what I’ve asked him to do anyway. Regardless of his personal feelings, when the chips are down, he does consider me an ally if not a friend, and he is a good man. He won’t let his stubbornness get in the way of saving the lives of children.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’ll call you later this evening after I’ve set up another meeting for you with Dresden. Until then, I’m running down some non-supernatural leads. If you want to get your hands dirty, I wouldn’t mind your assistance.”

“I’ll pass,” Ray said, hiding the shudder of disgust he felt. He knew just what Marcone did to anyone in his city whose name would come up as a lead on a missing child. “You know that’s never been my style.”

“Suit yourself. I will speak with you later then. Do you need directions back to your hotel?”

“I know my way around,” Ray said as he stood, accepting the dismissal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on the snake bit:
> 
> I actually operate a small reptile breeding business. I don't breed Burmese pythons, because they get quite large and require a lot of experience, and very few of my casual customers would pass my screening process. However, they do make great pets for the right person. They are very docile, and while large, will not eat you. Tinley Park, a suburb of Chicago, hosts one of the largest reptile breeder conferences in North America, so the area has a fairly large reptile hobbyist community. If you live near a NARBC expo, and are interested in that type of thing, I highly recommend going.
> 
> Also, I have no idea what kind of turtle Turtle is. I tried to find a screencap that was clear enough for me to identify species, but I didn't have any luck. Assuming that he's a land turtle and not a species of tortoise, box turtle seemed most likely. But, if you know, please leave a comment and clue me in, because it's driving me crazy.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some graphic violence and, not very graphic, talk of child molestation in this chapter.

I watched the video feed for the security camera in the outer office on my laptop, as the retired Detective Ray Vecchio traded good-natured insults with Nathan on his way out. I really hoped that I wouldn't have to kill him.

I didn't want to. He was a good man, and he'd been instrumental in taking down the Vargassis, but if anyone in my organization realized that he was actually an undercover detective, retired or not, I might not have much choice. My position was precarious. I couldn't be seen to be forgiving that kind of a betrayal. I hadn't even shared the information with Hendricks, though I suspected that he might have his own suspicions. Regardless. I was as devoted to protecting Vecchio's identity as he was at this point. I owed him that much-- even if he had no idea that I knew.

Hendricks reentered my office, smiling at the edges, even as he reasserted his professional demeanor.

"Who do we have watching Dresden today?" I asked.

"I think it's Vee."

"Have her alert us when Dresden leaves his office. I want to see him."

"You want me to send someone to pick him up," Nathan asked.

I smiled to myself, allowing my closest friend the privilege of seeing it. "Not this time. I think I'll drop by the gym when we've finished here. Has Mr. Broadbank arrived yet?"

"They brought him in while you were talking to Armando."

"Good," I said with a sigh. "Is everything set up?"

Nathan grunted.

"Let's get this taken care of, then." 

Contrary to what many citizens of Chicago and certain wizards of the White Council, named Harry Dresden, might think, I do not particularly enjoy my job. I have seen what happens when other men with no moral standards whatsoever carry the mantle though, and I have seen what happens when no one carries it at all. Crime pays. It is just a fact of the world, and no matter how many white hats you have running around, spouting out moral certitudes, there will always be someone out there to collect that payment. I provide order amongst the chaos. I enforce a framework for the criminals of my city to operate within. I ensure that the ordinary, innocent citizens of Chicago don't get caught in the crossfire.

Yes, this method of doing business has served me well. The authorities understand what I do, and are happy to have me around, or at least realize that I'm better than the alternative. Which, makes doing business a lot easier, but that isn't why I do it; that's just the payoff-- the easy way to justify my actions to the more morally corrupt members of my organization.

The world isn’t black and white; it’s full of grey areas, and that’s where I’ve built my empire. I am the apex predator that keeps the smaller carnivores at bay. I am the lesser evil.

Harry Dresden hates me for it, even more than he would if I truly was the completely corrupt, criminal scumbag that he wants to think I am. The truth is that he knows I’ve done more good for this city than bad. He knows that if I weren’t around, the crime related fatality rate in the city would skyrocket. Innocent people would die. He has seen into my soul, and I have seen into his, and he knows me too well to truly hate what I am—which makes him hate me all the more. He hates the idea that a man like me could be anything other than his enemy, but, when the chips are down, he doesn’t hesitate to call me for aid.

One way or another, I control every profitable criminal enterprise in these city-- drugs, prostitution, racketeering, you name it. If you want to buy a gram of cocaine, a night with a whore, or take out a short term loan to put money on a horse, you can do that in the city of Chicago in relative safety, as long as you pay up when all is said and done. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want their money. If everything is running smoothly, then no one gets hurt, and everyone has a good time. It doesn’t always work that way, but deaths related to criminal activity in Chicago have been at an all time low, since I took over the outfit.

There is one exception, one crime that every single member of my organization understands, intimately, carries a death sentence. I have zero tolerance for anyone who harms a child. Drugs are not sold to anyone under the age of eighteen by any of my distributors. I’m not naïve enough to think that the lower grade stuff isn’t eventually filtering down into the hands of teenagers, but it isn’t coming from anyone directly in my employ. Likewise, my enforcers might well come to break your kneecaps if you’re late on paying your debts, but they will never threaten your children. I don’t allow gunfights in city parks. Anyone who breaks these rules is dealt with, sometimes quietly, sometimes made an example of, but always swiftly and without mercy.

So, when Detective Vecchio turned up again after nearly a decade of thinking that he was no longer a problem, and started talking about missing children and Inuit legends, I sent him to Harry Dresden. Then, I started doing some digging of my own, on the off chance that it wasn’t a shape-shifting monster but rather the more mundane kind, and one name came up at the top of my list: Everett Broadbank.

He was ready for me when Hendricks and I stepped off the elevator into the underground parking garage. He was tied to a steel chair in the center of the empty expanse of concrete. His echoing yells going silent as we walked across the floor, replaced by the sound of our footsteps. He must have fought during extraction; his lip was split and bleeding down his chin, one eyesocket swollen nearly shut.

I felt myself go cold and detached as I approached him. It takes practice to be able to do what I do. Years of desensitization, first growing up on the South Side, and then in the rangers, falling into a position in Tony Vargassi’s outfit after, had done it. Now, I could turn my emotions off like flipping a light switch.

“Hello, Mr. Broadbank,” I said, as Nathan pulled the gag from his mouth.

Everett Broadbank was short, and just starting to go bald-- hairline receding just a bit too far. It was hard to make out his features beneath the bruising, but in all of the surveillance photos that I had of him, he looked like an arrogant, self-absorbed, weasel of a man.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked.

“Gentleman Johnny _maricón_ ” he said, spitting at my feet.

That actually brought me up short. It had been years since anyone had dared to use that particular pejorative. I had Marco Vargassi to thank for that little nickname. I had actually thought that everyone had forgotten it, but perhaps it was still being whispered behind my back. For those not familiar with the language, maricón means faggot in Spanish. Between the at least partial accuracy of the slur, and the phonetic similarity to my name, it’s one of the more clever insulting nicknames that I’ve earned over the years. Still, better that it not get out of hand.

I showed Broadbank my teeth in a predatory smile, and leaned over him. “I may be a _faggot_ , but you’ve been up to something _much_ worse, haven’t you, Mr. Broadbank?”

There was a stainless-steel table waiting for me with my knives laid out, and a single manila file folder. I went over to it and picked up the folder. I didn’t look at the 8x10 glossy photos inside. I’d seen them already, and once had been enough to turn my stomach. I didn’t want to look at them again. I drew them out one by one and sailed them like playing cards at Everett’s face.

“If you know who I am, then you should know how I feel about people who _molest little girls_ , living in my city,” I said in a low tone, and then growled out, “ _I don’t let them_.”

I watched as Broadbank’s eyes fastened to one of the pictures that had landed face up on the floor.

“You’re going to die for what you are, Mr. Broadbank,” I told him. “The only question is how long it’s going to take.”

He had frozen in fear, eyes wide, and mouth slightly open, breathing heavily.

I picked up one of the knives, an intimidating, twelve-inch Bowie with a mirror polish, and checked the edge against the pad of my thumb for the theatricality of the gesture. This was a well trod dance for me, each step building the tension and intimidation until the final crescendo. I didn’t bother with verbal threats, just took the knife and slid it up under Broadbank’s untucked, button-down, dress shirt and sliced it open. The knife edge parted the fabric easily, and I dug the point into Broadbank’s clavicle.

He screamed.

“There are children going missing in my city,” I said, coolly, when he had stopped screaming and started taking ragged breaths, “seven of them so far, all of indigenous Canadian or Alaskan descent. If I thought you had anything to do with it, we’d be having an entirely different conversation. But, I know how men like you work. I know that you _share_ your trophies. So, I want you to tell me everything that you know about it.”

“I… I don’t know anything about… any missing kids,” he gasped out.

I sliced off his nipple.

I moved away from him, turning my back to hide my face as he screamed in agony. After what had happened on Demonreach, perhaps I wasn’t as unaffected by this kind of work as I once had been. I had experienced the pain of torture myself now, and I knew how it felt to break. That didn’t mean that I was going to let myself empathize with a child rapist. I closed off those memories and stored them away. I noticed Nathan watching me carefully, a look of concern on his face that, perhaps, only I would have been able to see. He was such a nervous, over-protective, mother hen. I gave him a nod before turning back to Broadbank.

The man was sobbing, great hiccupping gulps of air as tears ran down his face, and he trembled. I wondered if that was how the girls that he’d hurt looked while he was taking his pleasure from them. I quickly closed down that thought as well, but allowed just a measure of the anger it caused to bubble through.

“Now, what can you tell me, Mr. Broadbank?”

“I don’t know anything, you fucking bastard. I didn’t kidnap any kids. I don’t know anything about it,” he sobbed out.

I believed him. I had read the police report from the interview with the victim who had been returned. Her story had corroborated the information that Vecchio had come to me with. It was obvious that something supernatural was at the root of this, but I still had a monster at the end of my knives, and examples had to be made.

I questioned him for another twenty minutes, and had turned his chest and face into a wreck of bloody hamburger when I was interrupted by the sound of Nathan’s cell phone ringing. I stopped in my work, while I listened to one half of the conversation. Mr. Broadbank had long since fallen considerately silent.

“It’s Vee,” Nathan said, ending the call. “Dresden is on the move.”

I ended Broadbank, sliding the knife cleanly up underneath his ribs and into his heart. There were two hot gushes of arterial blood over my hand, and then the flow slowed to a trickle. Broadbank’s body gave one massive shudder, and he was gone.

I wiped off my knife on a mostly clean patch of his shirt, returned it to the table, and looked down at the mess I’d made of my suit. “I’ll need to change and clean up,” I said. “Have a couple of the guys take care of this mess.”

“You want to dump him in the lake?” Nathan asked.

I glanced back over at the gory spectacle of Broadbank’s mutilated corpse. “Make an example. Cut off his penis, and drop him off at the home of whoever was next on that list you gave me.”

Hendricks grunted.

-*-

Being a wizard meant doing without things like hot water and electricity. I could probably go live in a Mennonite community without any major lifestyle changes. I almost made the dress code already, and I doubted that I’d notice any real change in my sex life. But, I’d have to give up the Beetle, and I’m not sure what their views are on magic users. I don’t think that they burn people at the stake for witchcraft anymore, but it would be something worth looking into.

The point is, without electricity, it’s pretty much impossible to have a home gym. I try to run daily to keep up my stamina and conditioning for when something inevitably tries to kill me, and like King Arthur and his knights fleeing from a French taunting, I must _run away_. This is fine when the weather is nice, but Midwestern winters really preclude running outdoors, so I go to the gym every day to clock in some miles on a treadmill, and enjoy a shower that’s more than a few degrees above freezing.

John Marcone had given me a lifetime, platinum level membership to Executive Priority, when he’d replaced The Velvet Room with Chicago’s new go-to for busy executives on the go who want a quick workout with a “personal trainer” and a nice rubdown (or a bit more) afterward. He’d done it to fuck with me of course-- in much the same way that Bianca had gifted me with my very own gravestone and plot in Graceland Cemetery. I find the very idea of engaging the services of a prostitute, whether a high-end escort or a dock-end doxie, utterly abhorrent. Paying a woman for sex just doesn’t fit in with my sense of chivalry.

I think that I can say with some confidence that I am the only member of Executive Priority, at any level, who doesn't make use of the… _other services_ on offer. I have no interest in the women who work there, save that they offer a nice view while I take my daily run. But, apart from that, I make full use of Marcone's gifted membership, at least in the colder months. The way I see it, putting the fancy, state-of-the-art, exercise equipment, and blissfully warm showers and jacuzzis to use is just my civic duty. That way, when the complicated, mechanical insides of the treadmills and the water heaters inevitably break, from contact with my magic, it’s Marcone who has to foot the bill for repairs, instead of some honest gym owner. Besides, gym memberships are expensive, and I’m a wizard on a budget. I don't see a reason to fork over any of my meager funds for a membership to 24-Hour Fitness, when I can go to Executive Priority and get my workout in while simultaneously being treated like a king and subtly sticking it to Marcone.

So, I decided to follow my usual routine, and take care of some business at the same time. I'd get my workout in, use the facilities, and then I would make enough ruckus that I’d be able to get someone to tell me where Marcone was keeping his base of operations this week.

A lovely young woman, named Amber, authorized the elevator for me, and led me to my own private changing room. The other platinum level changing rooms have numbers on them. It is a brothel, after all; its customers count on discretion. Mine, however, says Wizard Dresden on the door, in big block letters—probably because Marcone wants to advertise my occasional presence.

The changing rooms at Executive Priority aren’t quite like you would find in other gyms. They’re equipped for things that most people don’t usually add into their workout. Mine had an oversized chaise lounge on a lush Persian rug on one side of the room. There was a little table beside it full of lots of drawers. The drawers held condoms, lube, and other… _items_ , for people far more sexually adventurous than me. I’d only looked in there once. More importantly, I had my own personal shower, and a dresser to keep my workout clothes in. My membership even included laundry service.

I dismissed Amber at the door, and she gave me a confused, uncertain look. She must have been new. I changed into my workout clothes-- an old _Star Wars_ t-shirt, and a pair of running shorts that were a lot tighter than I would have preferred, but drastically cut down on chaffing.

There’s a separate workout room for platinum members only. Apparently, it’s to make the VIPs feel like they’re getting their money’s worth, but I had never seen anyone else use it. I guessed that the type of people who actually paid for a platinum membership weren't there to use the dumbbells. As far as I was concerned, that was just another perk.

When I made my way into the workout room today, though, I paused inside the door in surprise, because there was a man running on my usual treadmill—muscular thighs under tight running shorts, that looked a lot better on him than they did me, pumping in a steady rhythm. He had broad shoulders and a strong back that tapered down at the waist to the kind of ass that women wax poetic over. I stopped and just stared for a second, wondering why the hell this guy was, using my treadmill instead of getting his rocks off in his changing room or on a spa table.

Then, I noticed Cujo Hendricks in the corner, working out his biceps with a weight that I could barely bench-press. He just stared back at me, doing his steady reps, and I realized that the man on the treadmill was Marcone.

I unfroze and strode across the room, dropping my towel over the armrest of the other treadmill, and popping my water bottle into the cup holder.

Marcone turned his head to look at me, not even breaking stride for an instant, and said, “Why hello, Mr. Dresden. What a pleasant surprise. Care to join me for a run?” in that smug way that he had.

Now, when I say that Executive Priority has all the fancy state-of-the-art equipment, I _do_ mean fancy. The bank of four treadmills was connected to a big view screen that was programmed with a variety of different landscapes and terrains to choose from. While you ran, the treadmill would tilt and adjust to imitate what the program was showing on the screen. Marcone had it set to a packed dirt trail through old growth forest that was one of my favorites.

I got onto the treadmill and hit the button to connect to the program, not saying a word until it had slowly sped up to match his pace. “Did I forget that it was workout with a scumbag day, or are you here so that you can stop sending your lackeys to my office, and ask for my help yourself?” I asked.

“I was informed that I would be told to fuck off, if I did, and Mr. Langoustini is a friend, not a lackey. All of my lackeys know how to deal with your tantrums. Mr. Hendricks teaches a class to our new recruits.”

I heard a snort from Cujo in the corner.

“Are you going to explain to me what your interest in all of this is?” I asked.

“I am merely doing a favor for a friend. I assure you that Mr. Langoustini’s story is quite genuine. Beyond that, it may be a joke to you, but I take my responsibilities as Baron of Chicago quite seriously. A supernatural entity is abducting children from my territory. You know me well enough by now to know that I would never let that stand.”

I did. Marcone had a thing about kids. It was one of the few things that we agreed on.

I hit the button on the treadmill to increase the speed. The two pairs of treadmills were linked when connected to the program, presumably so that your personal trainer could guide the workout. So, Marcone’s treadmill increased its speed to match mine when I pressed the button. My longer legs accepted the change more easily than his, but he didn’t remark on the increased pace, just pumped his legs harder to match my stride.

“What about Lieutenant Kowalski?” I asked. “He and Langoustini seem to have a ghostly friend in common. Know anything about that?”

He missed a step, one of the clearest signs of discomposure that I’d gotten off of him yet. Maybe, I should interrogate him on a treadmill more often; it made him easier to read.

“I don’t know anything about a ghost,” he said.

“But you do know what the connection is between Bookman and Kowalski,” I concluded.

“Nothing relevant to the missing children.”

I hit the go faster button again.

Marcone sighed this time as he hurried to keep up. “There are kids missing. My guess is that Armando’s theory about the Ijiraq is correct, which means that the fae are involved. If another signatory of The Unseelie Accords is stealing children from my territory, then it is well within your jurisdiction as warden to do something about it. So, do something about it. There isn’t time for this charade.”

It irritated me that Marcone could use words like ‘signatory’ and ‘jurisdiction’ without having to catch his breath between, so I hit the button one more time.

“What charade is that?” I asked.

“The one where you… pretend to be… above working with me… to spare your precious... ideals about morality.” He was having to pause for breath now, and I smirked a little as my long strides easily ate up the rubber. “You and I both know… that you’re going to… find those children,… and probably stir up more trouble… than you can handle… in the process. So… drop the act. Let’s work together… on this.”

I ran for a while in silence, listening to him puff and struggle to keep up, while the view screen showed the winding dirt path through the dense forest of towering trees to either side. He was right of course, but it always rankled when he tried to set aside the show of hatred, that we acted out on the occasions that we had to work together, in favor of pragmatism.

“Send Bookman back to my office tomorrow at eight,” I said. 

“Why, Harry… you surprise me. Are you… actually learning how to act like… an adult?”

I hit the button again.

“Guess not,” he puffed out, and then went silent as the bed of the treadmill tilted up to simulate the hill that had approached on the screen. Even I was breathing a bit hard by the time we crested it, and I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my back.

“Don’t… call me Harry,” I said, far too belatedly to have any effect.

Marcone actually found breath to bark out a laugh. “I’ll send over… your usual retainer fee.”

The screen went black, and both treadmills stopped suddenly, throwing us into the columns on front that housed the electronics. Mine let out a little puff of black smoke and the smell of burnt wiring, and Marcone’s crackled ominously.

“I’m not taking money from you,” I said, stepping off the treadmill and grabbing my towel to wipe the back of my neck.

Marcone laughed again, using the handrails on the side of the treadmill to straighten up, from where he had stumbled into the column. “You may tell that to my maintenance team when I sign their repair bill for this week. Maybe I’ll buy you an indoor track instead; it would probably save me money in the long run.”

I failed to manage a witty response to that, so instead I said, “Send Bookman over in the morning,” and left.

-*-

“That was painful to watch, boss,” Nathan said, as I collapsed onto one of the benches along the wall.

I grunted out his usual response for when I made observations about the futility of his equally fruitless infatuation with Ms. Gard.

“Should I have Amber send Ethan to your room?” he asked.

I looked over to see if he was rubbing it in, but there was a genuine look of concerned pity on his face.

Ethan was one of the few men kept on staff at Executive Priority. He was six-foot-five, lanky, pale, and had dark hair. Apart from the general body type, he bore no real resemblance to Harry Dresden, but I’d used him as a stand-in once or twice. Nathan wasn’t naïve enough to have missed what I was doing when I had him hired, nor had he missed the fact that, in the last year or so, Ethan had been the only person that I had had sex with, and those occasions had been infrequent enough, and were usually preceded by a run-in with Dresden.

“No,” I answered him. “I’ve gotten my workout in today. I’m going to hit the shower, and then I think I’ll head home. We have that board meeting first thing tomorrow.”

Hendricks grunted.


	4. Chapter 4

When I returned to my apartment, the basement of an old boarding house, there were signs that my apprentice, Molly, had been there. A half-finished can of Mountain Dew sat on the cupboard by the sink, and one of my paperbacks was lying on the sofa.

I let my oversized dog out to do his business, and my oversized cat out to do whatever it is he did on his evening ramble. No doubt, Mister was out getting lucky and visiting his multitudinous offspring. I'm quite sure that my cat has a much more active sex life than I do, but we don't discuss it. We respect each other's privacy like that.

I grabbed one of my stash of illicitly chilled beers from the ice box. Mac would probably refuse to sell to me, if he knew that I kept his beer cold, but sometimes a guy just wants a cold beer at the end of a long day.

With a flick of my hand, and a mumbled "flickum bicus," to light my candles, I headed down the steps into the lab in the sub-basement.

I sometimes wonder, with how my luck usually goes, what combination of planets and stars had to align for me to find my apartment in Chicago. Really, for a modern wizard, the place couldn't be more perfect. An open floor plan with a big fireplace in the apartment proper, and the sub-basement had just the right air of subterranean gloom for a properly wizardy lab space.

"Wake up, lazy bones," I called to Bob the skull, on his shelf of bodice-ripper paperbacks.

Bob's yellow eye-lights flickered a few times and he gave a teeth-rattling yawn.

"Cookie was here," he said. "I believe she left you a note. It's sitting over in the middle of lake Michigan."

"I told you not to call her that," I said, more out of habit than any hope that he might listen. Cookie was one of the less suggestive dessert-based monikers that my, supposed, spirit of _intellect_ had adopted for my apprentice.

I found the hastily scribbled note in the middle of Lake Michigan, on my scale model of Chicago.

It said:

Sensei, 

I have unleashed the hound for his afternoon piddle, and removed the dinosaur-sized fecal evidence of his ablutions. Vampire Sexypants called while I was here. Says you should come in for a haircut.

-Grasshopper

I fingered my hair as I read the note, it was getting on the shaggy side, but I wasn't entirely sure that I was comfortable with letting my brother cut it-- given that he usually fed off his salon customers. But, he could just be using the haircut as an excuse to meet up with me to discuss something more important. I set it aside for now, telling myself that I'd stop by the salon tomorrow, time permitting.

"Tell me everything you know about were-caribous," I told Bob. "Were-Caribi? What's the plural of caribou."

"Caribou," Bob answered. "What kind of were-caribou are you talking about, boss?"

"There's more than one kind of were-caribou?"

"Is there more than one kind of were-wolf?" Bob asked, sarcastically.

“Well, yeah, but…” I trailed off. Of course there were many means by which a human could be turned into a wolf, and I’d run into most of them over the years. I suppose that it only stood to reason that there were an equal number of ways that a person might change themselves into a caribou. Though on the whole, I would say that a wolf carries a bit more style and capacity for damage.

“Exactly,” Bob said, as though he had read my mind. I guess it wouldn’t have been that hard to guess what I was thinking.

I pulled my notebook from my back pocket and looked at it. “The clients say this one is an ijiraq.”

“That’s a change of pace, for you,” Bob said. “Usually you have to do some actual detective work. It must be nice to be able to skip straight to the throwing around fireballs part.”

“That depends,” I said. “What’s an ijiraq?”

“It’s a were-caribou,” Bob said.

“Yeah, I got that. Care to be more specific?”

“Ijirait (that’s the plural for ijiraq, before you ask) are shape shifters. They don’t have to change into caribou, but that’s the form that they seem to most prefer. They usually stay pretty far north, so I guess it’s easier to blend in as a caribou. That’s their preferred method of operation. They hide amongst other people—even interacting with them, becoming a member of a community. Or, they’ll hide in a herd of caribou, and they have some capacity for invisibility. They spend plenty of time in the Nevernever, but they aren’t, strictly speaking, sidhe, though they are loosely aligned with winter.”

I shuddered. The Winter Queen, Mab, still had my nuts in the proverbial vice. I wasn’t excited about the prospect of going up against anything that she considered one of her allies, no matter how loose the alliance. “I have a bunch of missing kids,” I told him.

“Yeah, if you have an ijiraq, you’re bound to have missing kids. They take them into the Nevernever and leave them there. I have no idea why. Sometimes they bring them back, and sometimes they don’t. They’re pretty morally ambiguous in general. Sometimes they help lost travelers. Sometimes they make them lose their way.”

“How hard are they to kill?”

“Killing them isn’t the difficult part,” Bob said, “finding them is. These are creatures that survive by hiding in plain sight, and turning invisible if anyone takes notice. If you have one kidnapping kids in Chicago, you could be looking for a mailman, or a baker, or a caribou at the zoo, or someone’s dog for that matter. An ijiraq could be anything—any person or animal.”

“Great,” I muttered. “So, maybe my detective work for this case isn’t over just yet, after all.” I paced the lab, thinking over the limited information that I had on the case. “One of the kids did get sent back. Murphy said that she turned up by a pile of Inuit rocks in city center. It’s in the mall. Do you want to head over there and take a look around? See if you can find anything that the cops missed?”

“Certainly. What’s in it for me?”

“Your usual fee,” I said. Bob’s usual fee was a new romance paperback, of the type that they sold in supermarkets and gas stations, and were usually only one step up from actual pornography.

“Agreed,” Bob said, eagerly.

“In that case, you have my permission to leave to investigate the rocks in the mall. Be back before sunrise, and don’t cause any trouble.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Bob said, and a cloud of orangish-yellow light streamed out of the skull and up the steps out of the lab.

I sighed and took another slug of my beer, savoring the taste. With a bunch of missing kids involved, I wanted to get this all figured out as soon as possible, but it was looking like the next step, after my meeting with the mobster and the cop tomorrow, would be to contact my fairy godmother for information. Knowing her extortion tactics, I might be better off just handing myself over to Mab now.

-*-

Benton had staked out the inukshuk a few hours before the mall closed, situating himself against the rocks, and watching as the crowds of shoppers flowed by. The crowds steadily lessening in number as the mall began to close, and stores lowered their security shutters, until only the janitorial staff remained.

Diefenbaker had taken what he assured Benton was a tactically beneficial position, right outside the Cinnabon, until they too closed up for the night, and he returned to Fraser’s side, laying down with his head tucked between his paws.

Soon, the janitors too had moved on, and all was quiet. The stillness and silence in the huge, open space of the mall, such a rarity in Chicago, made Benton miss home, and he wondered if he could convince Ray to take a trip back to Canada for a week or two, once this case was closed, or if maybe he should make the trip on his own.

Benton sighed.

That hadn’t gone so well the last time, and he doubted that Ray would be supportive of the idea of him returning to Canada alone again. The last time had been two years ago—a couple of much needed weeks up in the tundra, working on the cabin, and just filling up on the silence. Only, he’d gone to bed one night, and the next morning when he’d gone to step out the front door of the cabin, he’d walked out into their bedroom in Chicago instead, and Ray told him that he’d been reported missing nearly two months previous.

Ray had flown to Canada in a panic and hired a sled team to go the rest of the way to the cabin, only to find it empty with no signs of where Benton had gone or what had happened to him. The RCMP had likewise, turned up no leads. Given the fact that the only people who had been able to see him so far were his lover and his former partner, and Benton was unable to physically interact with the world, it seemed safe to assume that he was dead. The problem was that he had no idea, and no memory, of what had happened to him either.

Diefenbaker cut into his consideration by suddenly sitting up and letting out a low growl. Benton stood up and looked around, but the mall still appeared empty.

“Is someone there?” he asked, turning his head to scan the empty space out of the corners of his eyes.

“Well, _hello there_ , cowboy,” a voice said. “Aren’t you an interesting one?”

“Who’s there,” Benton asked.

“My friends call me Bob, but you can call me anything you want,” the voice said.

“Dad?” Benton asked. He hadn’t seen the ghost of his father, Robert Fraser, since he had moved on to what Benton assumed was the afterlife, after he had finally avenged his mother with the apprehension of her killer, Holloway Muldoon.

“Oooh,” the voice said. “Is that how you like to play? Sure, I’ll be your daddy.”

_Obviously not Bob Fraser then…_

“Where are you?” Benton asked.

There was a glow of orange light that swirled around the stones of the inukshuk and came to rest, hovering in the air, a few feet in front of Benton.

“Hello?” Benton said to the light.

“Hey,” the light said back.

 _Well, okay then_ , Benton thought. _That clears that up._ He wasn’t sure what this thing was, but it wasn’t an ijiraq. “I’m terribly sorry if this is a rude question,” he said, “but what are you?”

“Spirit of intellect,” the voice said, “and your newest admirer. I have to say, you make that uniform look _good_.”

“Ah,” Benton said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thank you, kindly. I am in a monogamous relationship.”

“Course you are. Look at you. I’d be keeping that on a short leash too.” The _spirit of intellect_ (Bob?) flew off again, spiraling around the inukshuk once more. “Hmm,” it said to itself speculatively. “I don’t suppose you saw a caribou hanging around here at all, did you?”

“The ijiraq,” Benton said, abruptly on full alert. “Have you seen it?”

“I asked you first,” Bob said.

“I have not,” Benton admitted, rubbing at his brow.

There was a sound like sniffing. “It definitely smells like a whole herd of ijirait have been through here, and the fabric between worlds is thin here,” Bob muttered to himself. He streamed back over to hover before Benton again. “What are you?”

Benton stiffened. “I am a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, and for reasons that-”

Bob blew a raspberry, cutting him off. “No. _What_ are you? You look like a ghost on the outside, but you don’t feel like any ghost I’ve ever come across before.”

“Ah, I see, well… I’m afraid that I’m not entirely certain,” Benton admitted.

Bob made a speculative noise. “Well, I have a few more hours before curfew. Do you want to have some fun?”

“I need to remain here, in case the ijiraq returns.”

“I didn’t say that we needed to go anywhere, Red. I’m sure that we can come up with something to pass the time. It seems that we have similar interests.”

-*-

The Bookman arrived at my office the same time that I did, pulling up in a big, green, vintage Buick, and parking behind me before I even had a chance to turn the key off in the ignition of the blue Beetle.

“Nice car,” I told him, as I unfolded myself from the confines of the Beetle.

“Thanks. Yours is… interesting, too,” he said. “Marcone says you’re willing to play ball.”

“I’m willing to help find the missing kids. I don’t have any interest in playing ball with you or Marcone,” I said.

Bookman shrugged. “Say it however you like, just help me find these kids, and we can all go our separate ways.”

I nodded. “Come on up to my office then, and you can tell me everything you know.”

I kept him in front of me as we took the stairs, not trusting him at my back, and unlocked the door to my office to let us inside. I kept my duster on and took a seat behind my desk, keeping my blasting rod within easy reach.

“You should know,” I said, “that the CPD has also asked me to look in on this case.”

“Good,” Langoustini said, not looking bothered with the fact at all.

“Marcone and I have a history of working together when necessary,” I told him. “I know how far I can trust him. You and I don’t have that relationship. If you give me any reason to think that you’re not being completely on the level with me, I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later. Is that understood?”

“I just want to find these kids,” Bookman said, “so I can go home. If you can help with that, great, but I’m not looking to start any trouble with you, or get involved with the outfit in Chicago any more than I already am. I’m just trying to do a favor for an old friend.”

“Fine.”

I’d been about to suggest that we wait for Lieutenant Kowalski, so that we could all be on the same page, but before I could open my mouth, the door to my office banged open, and the Lieutenant stormed in like an angry hedgehog.

Kowalski and Bookman had no more than locked eyes, before Kowalski started yelling.

“Vecchio! I knew it had to be you when I saw that boat parked in the street. What the blue fuck are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be shacked up in some tacky Gulf Coast condo, fucking my wife?”

The Bookman was on his feet in an instant. “It’s _Langoustini_ , actually,” he hissed. “I think you must have me confused with someone else. Though, I believe your _ex_ -wife has been Mrs. Vecchio for a good many years longer than she was ever Mrs. Kowalski.”

“So, you know each other then,” I said, trying to break the tension, and wondering how much more complicated the interpersonal relationships in this case could get. Both men ignored me.

“The Feds have you playing that old racket again, do they? I thought Marcone’s outfit was acting a little fishy lately. I didn’t realize that the lobster mobster was back in town,” Kowalski continued with a sneer.

“No, as a matter of fact, I was called in by a _mutual friend_.”

Both of them turned their heads abruptly to stare at the empty corner of my office, visibly unoccupied save for a shelf of paperbacks.

Kowalski threw his hands in the air. “Where the hell have you been all morning? Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing _him_ in on this?”

There was a pause as the ghost, presumably, answered him, and then Kowalski said, “I told you I was handling it!” Another pause. “That’s what the wizard was supposed to be for.”

“Oh yeah,” Langoustini said, “and that seems to have progressed things so far, seeing as we’re both sitting in the same damn office!”

“I don’t want a new partner,” Kowalski was telling the ghost, “and before you say it, no, I’m not just waiting to die. I’m fine with the way things are now.” A short pause and Kowalski’s face darkened with suppressed rage. “Well, I’d mind,” he said between gritted teeth.

Then the anger was gone, and Kowalski flushed and shot a glance at Langoustini. For his part, Langoustini looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here at the moment.

“I think I’ll be the judge of what my physical needs are,” Kowalski said in a fervent hiss, barely above a whisper.

There was a much longer pause this time, and the Bookman turned a bit green and covered his eyes with one hand. “Benny, that is _way_ more information than I ever wanted to know. Do you think that the two of you could discuss your relationship issues later? I’d like to get this wrapped up so that I can get back to fucking my wife in my tacky condominium.” Langoustini smirked at Kowalski, who was seething with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

I cleared my throat, and the two of them that I could see turned to look at me. “As interesting as this little soap opera you two have going here is, do you think that you could clue me in? What’s going on here?” I asked, gesturing between them.

Langoustini looked back to the corner. “Can I trust him?” he asked. After a moment, he nodded and turned back to me. “Okay, then. My real name is Ray Vecchio,” he said, as he sat down in the chair again.

“Okay,” I said. I tried to remember what Murphy had said about Ray Vecchio yesterday, and I glanced at the other Ray. He was rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath to his ghost lover.

“I was Detective Ray Vecchio with the Chicago P.D.,” he continued. “For two years, I was partnered with Constable Benton Fraser, deputy liaison officer with the Canadian Consulate. Then, in 1998, I went undercover as Armando ‘The Bookman’ Langoustini for the F.B.I., and they brought this joker,” he gestured to Kowalski, “in to pretend to be me while I was playing mobster for the feds. Long story short, after a year undercover, Benny accidentally blows my cover; I take a bullet in the line of duty, and get to take an early retirement with a nice compensation package. Kowalski ends up with Benny, flying my old desk at the 27th, and I end up on the beach in Florida, drinking Mai Tais with a bombshell Assistant Prosecutor—who at one point had the tremendous misfortune of being married to this schmuck. Did I leave anything out, _Stanley_?”

The Lieutenant looked about to argue, but he must have been sidelined by something that the ghost said, because he looked in the corner, and then he muttered, “Yeah, yeah,” and waved off whatever it was. He walked across the office and took the other chair in front of my desk.

I remained silent, thinking all this over for a while, trying to decide if this new revelation made everything more complicated or less so. “Marcone doesn’t know that you’re undercover,” I said finally.

“Do you see me sitting here breathing?” The Bookman, no, _Vecchio_ , asked. “Of course he doesn’t know, and let’s keep it that way, so I can continue… with the breathing.”

 _More complicated_ , I decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've settled on a weekly update schedule for this story until it's finished. The updates will be posted sometime between Friday and Sunday depending on my schedule.
> 
> I've been writing a ton in the Good Omens fandom lately. I update my "Princes of the Unvierse" series every day or two. The first story in that series is complete, and funny enough to have you making embarrassing noises in public (or so I've been told.) I also have a handful of stand-alone one shots completed for that fandom. So, if you're into Good Omens, check them out.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.  
> ♥️


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